


Let's Conspire to Ignite

by kumo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angry Kissing, Awkward Conversations, Laundry, M/M, Premature Ejaculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kumo/pseuds/kumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s weird how time works sometimes, Stiles thinks as he stops in his tracks. Because suddenly he’s back to last summer, back to that brief moment where he was pressed hard against a wall with Derek’s mouth hot against his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Conspire to Ignite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [popfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/gifts).



> For you, popfly! I hope you enjoy it <3
> 
> many thanks to [twilightthief](http://twilightthief.livejournal.com/) for the beta

He should knock. 

Stiles should stop standing like an idiot with his fist raised in the air and just knock on the damned door. He tells himself that he’s not worried about what he will find inside. The other night was horrible, sure, but he got a pretty good rundown from Scott so he knows what happened while he was busy being nearly crushed to death. He knows that the Hales should be safe and sound, at least physically. There’s no rational reason for him to be so nervous right now.

He raises his fist again, and the door slides open.

“Derek wants to know why you’re lurking outside our door,” Cora says, hip cocked to the side and one eyebrow raised with an eerie family resemblance.

Stiles clears his throat. “I was just coming to see how you were doing? You didn't reply to my texts, so-”

“We’re fine, Stiles.” Cora doesn't move to let him in.

“Good, good, that’s…good,” Stiles nods vigorously. Then he grimaces at himself and blurts out, “So he’s here then?”

Cora smirks at him, a little huff of a laugh. “We’re busy.” Her voice is trying to be stern, but her eyes give her away - like she’s happy that Stiles has come, happy that someone cares enough about them to check up on them. It doesn't really matter why she is happy, Stiles acknowledges, it just matters that she is. He can work with that.

“Ok, well...you guys want to grab some coffee? My treat? It’s like a block away, come on.” Cora starts to speak, but Derek’s voice comes from inside the apartment. “Go away, Stiles.”

Stiles knows an opening when he sees it. Or hears it.

He shoulders his way into the loft, throws a grin Cora’s way when she says “Oh yeah, please, come right in.”

Derek leans against the table, the back-lighting from the window doing nothing to hide the way he levels Stiles with an expectant glare and sighs with lips pressed tight.

It’s weird how time works sometimes, Stiles thinks as he stops in his tracks. Because suddenly he’s back to last summer, back to that brief moment where he was pressed hard against a wall with Derek’s mouth hot against his. He remembers vividly rough hands sliding under his shirts, not quite tickling but still nearly too much to handle. He can almost feel a firm thigh wedged between his and his cheeks color at the phantom sensation. His stomach drops as he recalls exactly how Derek looked when pulling away as though horrified at his own actions, shouting at Stiles to get the hell out.

Only he’s not there, not then. Not really. He’s standing in Derek’s loft, shuffling his feet and suddenly overly aware of the position of his arms. The loft is drafty but his face is burning, and Derek’s posture softens as though he knows exactly where Stiles was for those few seconds.

At least he’s stopped glaring, Stiles thinks.

Cora mumbles something that sounds like, “Maybe I _will_ grab some coffee” and slides the front door closed behind her as she escapes.

Derek throws Stiles a sidelong glance before he walks over to his sofa and starts folding clothes, and Derek actually folds his clothes? Stiles usually just shoves his in his drawers, if they make it out of the laundry basket at all. He starts envisioning Derek merrily cleaning up his wreck of a loft, possibly in some kind of service outfit, but the delightful image is interrupted by a gruff “What do you want, Stiles?”

Derek’s hands move fluidly against the soft fabrics (god, his shirt had been so soft when Stiles’ hand was clenching it). “I was just checking on you guys, that’s all.” His mouth hangs open as Derek holds a towel beneath his chin and folds it in crisp even thirds. “Cora wasn't at school today and she wasn't answering her texts.” Derek’s (huge, rough) hands smooth over the folded towel, tossing it carelessly on top of a stack of clean linens. “And frankly, you weren't looking so hot the last time I saw you.”

Derek looks up at this, and the small part of Stiles that rejoiced in this victory is quickly subdued by the darkness of Derek’s face when he says “I’m fine. You shouldn't be here.”

“I shouldn't be here?” It’s like a switch is flipped inside of Stiles, and a fury he didn't even realize was there follows the path it knows best and pours out of his mouth. “Seriously?! You know what, no. I can be here if I want, dammit, we’re friends and friends check in on each other after they've had a really shitty few days, all right?” He knows he is flailing, would know it even if there wasn't that slight upturn to Derek’s mouth as he tracks Stiles’ movement around the loft. “And I don’t want to hear that we aren't friends, because that’s what I’m taking out of this entire...thing, okay? That’s my reward. You save somebody’s ass enough times and you get to call them your friend, even if they don’t like it. No matter how much you might actually hate them or how big of an asshole they-”

“Stiles!”

Derek had stopped folding laundry and evidently crossed the room when Stiles wasn't looking. He’s got a firm grip on Stiles’ biceps, and forces Stiles to meet his eyes when he says “Jesus, listen. I’m sorry if I made you…confused, or-“

“Confused? I’m not confused. Totally not confused.” It’s not the biggest lie he’s ever told, but it’s pretty damned close.

“No?” Derek says, his brow slightly furrowed as his eyes became unreadable. Even though Stiles has never been good with rhetorical questions, something about that strange look in Derek’s eyes steals the retort right from his lips. 

Derek releases his grip on Stiles arms and crosses the room, debris crunching beneath his feet until he vanishes up the spiral staircase. He returns quickly with a large duffle bag, and begins stuffing his nicely folded clothes inside, making Stiles wonder why the hell he even bothered folding them at all. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Stiles tries to sound casual, hates how small his voice sounds in the large, empty space. 

There is no answer, and Stiles knows better than to repeat the question but he does anyway.

Derek lets go of his bag, purses his lips and gives Stiles a cutting glare. “Go home, Stiles. Make dinner for your dad, watch the baseball game. Get up in the morning and be an idiot with Scott at school. I’m busy.”

“Man, fuck you, this martyr complex shit is getting old.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Stiles wants to take them back. He’s got plenty of reasons to be pissed at Derek, but that one is nowhere near the top. He crosses the room in a huff, not sure which of the two of them he is more angry with. He sidesteps the shards of the skylight in the middle of the floor and is face to face with Derek before he’s really ready to be.

Much later, he would wonder what exactly possessed him to do what he did. He’d marvel at how on Earth he grew the balls to just grab Derek Hale’s face and kiss him. But as it happens, he doesn't think about it at all. He just throws himself into it, just presses his mouth hotly against Derek’s with no remorse. Derek’s hands fly up and grab Stiles’ wrists, but he makes no move to push them away. He just hangs on, lets Stiles kiss him until he is undoubtedly kissing Stiles back. But it is different than the last time, Stiles notices, and it’s strange - tentative and soft in a way he’s not expecting. It somehow almost feels, Stiles thinks, like Derek is kissing him as though he doesn't plan on seeing him again.

Stiles pulls back with the realization, doesn't even wince as Derek roughly shoves at Stiles’ wrists and snarls, “Don’t do that.” 

“You’re leaving,” Stiles says, nodding with certainty. Derek still doesn't answer. “Is Cora going too?” Derek finally nods, and Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat. “Are you coming back?” and fuck that strange edge to his voice, who gives a shit if Derek Hale leaves and never comes back? Derek has been averting Stiles’ eyes since he pushed him away, but now he looks him dead on as he says “I’m not sure.” 

It’s not exactly clear how they collide in the next moment, but what matters is that they do. Fierce kisses that are much more reminiscent of the first time this happened, kisses where each moment the threat of surrender is looming. Derek has a hand on the back of Stiles’ head, and one low on his back. Stiles slides his hands down and grips Derek’s ridiculously firm ass, and god he’s overwhelmed with all the things he wants to do. Because he’s had time to research things dammit, he hadn't even known all the things he wanted to do the last time this was happening. Now he knows that he wants Derek to eat his ass until he’s crying from the pleasure and burn of it, to spread him wide and fuck him raw. He knows that he wants Derek to bend him over the table, fuck him up against the wall, screw him right into the floorboards. 

But there’s no time no debate the merits of each of these ideas, Stiles realizes, as Derek’s brow furrows like he’s fighting some great internal battle, huffing a hot breath into Stiles’ neck. Stiles thinks fuck that and slides a hand down to stroke the bulge of Derek’s cock through the front of his jeans.

Derek surges against him, and the sound he makes, god, Stiles thinks he might be able to get off on the memory of that sound for the rest of his life. Then he’s tipping backwards, crashing softly on Derek’s couch as Derek lands heavy on top of him. Derek rocks his hips against Stiles’ as he kisses him, and the neatly folded laundry is kicked halfway across the room. It’s unintentional, but the building rhythm and the panting, gasping kisses bring Stiles to the edge so quickly that he doesn't have time to do anything before he is coming in his pants. He cries out against Derek’s shoulder, gripping Derek’s shirt tightly as he feels the warm wetness spreads across his thighs. 

Derek pulls back to look at him, says “Did you just-” Stiles blushes furiously, mutters “Shut up, god” as he reaches for Derek’s belt buckle.

Derek pulls away from him quickly and starts collecting the laundry from the floor. Stiles gapes at him, and is about to put together the words to express the WTF-ery of what just happened when the front door slides open. 

Cora takes two steps inside the loft before she stops in her tracks and yells “oh my god, seriously?”

“You should go,” Derek says without looking at Stiles. He is shoving his rescued clothes into his duffle bag, and even if Stiles had words he wanted to say he isn't sure he could get them out. 

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles removes himself from the sofa and sidles awkwardly across the loft before forcing himself to look away from Derek. He takes a few steps backwards before turning and nearly colliding with Cora. “See you ‘round, Cora.” He makes a move for the door, but Cora catches him around the shoulders and reels him in for a hug before he heads out the door.

 

Stiles is sitting in English when Scott confirms that the Hales are gone. He tries to react to the news as though it bears the weight Scott is expecting, but in the end he just gives a little nod. He’s had days to come to terms with it now, and frankly his reacting-to-earth-shattering-announcements-during-school energy is all tapped out.

At lunch his phone vibrates, and he looks down to see a text from a number he doesn't recognize. His pulse picks up as he nervously opens a message that turns out to read: “the desert is boring as fuck”. He gives in to a hesitant smile and begins to compose his reply.


End file.
